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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24669679">The Lord of the Wings, or To the World and Back Again</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mirach/pseuds/Mirach'>Mirach</a>, <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mirach/pseuds/Mirach_art'>Mirach_art (Mirach)</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>My Good Omens stories [13]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Good Omens (TV), TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works &amp; Related Fandoms</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Aftermath of Torture, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Middle Earth Setting, Angst with a Happy Ending, Art, Blood and Injury, Caring Crowley (Good Omens), Dragon Crowley (Good Omens), Elf Crowley (Good Omens), Good AUmens AU Festival, Hobbit Aziraphale (Good Omens), Hurt Aziraphale (Good Omens), Hurt/Comfort, Maia Aziraphale, Maia Crowley (Good Omens), Mobile friendly pictures, Other, Past Torture, Story with pictures, pictures with story</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 05:41:39</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>16,650</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24669679</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mirach/pseuds/Mirach, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mirach/pseuds/Mirach_art</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>The first time they met, Aziraphale was a queen of Númenor called Ar-Zimraphel and Crowley used to be called Sauron.<br/>The second time they met, Aziraphale wore the form of a hobbit and Crowley was a dragon.<br/>The third time they met, Aziraphale has been stung by a giant spider while trying to free Crowley from the power of the Ring.<br/>(A trilogy in two pictures and one story)</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>My Good Omens stories [13]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1517162</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>90</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>181</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Good AUmens AU Fest, Hurt Aziraphale</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Númenor</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">

        <li>
          Translation into Русский available: 
            <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29084403">Властелин Крылец, или За этот мир и Обратно</a> by <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/Reya_Dawnbringer/pseuds/Reya_Dawnbringer">Reya_Dawnbringer</a>, <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/team_Good_Omens/pseuds/WTF%20Good%20Omens%202021">WTF Good Omens 2021 (team_Good_Omens)</a>
        </li>


    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Written/drawn for Good AUmens. Thanks to kaiannanthi for betaing!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  
</p><p>The wave is coming. It is dark and turquoise, foam shining on its crest like a pearl necklace on the neck of an assassin. It seems deceptively small in the distance, the sea stretching as flat and infinite as ever. Just the line of the horizon is a little higher than usual. </p><p>The two figures on the wall watch it with a horrified expression.</p><p>"All of them?" the lean ginger in ceremonial armour asks tensely.</p><p>“Just the locals," the pale woman in queenly garb replies, but it doesn't seem like she is too convinced about her own words. "I don't believe the Almighty's upset with the Haradrim. Or the Dwarves. Or the Drúedain.”</p><p>“Yet.”</p><p>“And Eru's not actually going to wipe out all the locals. I mean, Elendil, in the harbour there, his family, and his sons, their wives, they're all going to be fine.”</p><p>“But they're drowning everybody else?”</p><p>She nods, biting her lips.</p><p>“Not the kids? You can't kill kids.”</p><p>She nods again, and there is something desperate in her eyes, something that wants to ask questions, but doesn't dare to speak them aloud.</p><p> </p><p>
  <span class="u"> 57 years ago </span>
</p><p>She stood at the top of the staircase, awaiting the return of her king. Ar-Pharazôn was all gold and scarlet, pride and pomp. Crowley expected the queen to be the same, maybe in silver. But instead, she was white. And not the blinding, pretentious white, either. She was a soft white, the one that doesn't blind but offers a silent refuge from the noise of the other colours. But there was something else that captured his attention immediately. </p><p>She wasn't human.</p><p>She walked down the stairs and bowed to her husband, but her eyes were on Crowley. "Welcome home, my king," she said softly. "You brought a prisoner, I see."</p><p>"That's right, Ar-Zimraphel," the king smirked, yanking the chains so that Crowley stumbled to his knees. "Even the dark lord Sauron bows before my might."</p><p>He hated that name. It sounded so lizard-ish. But he didn't say anything because he could feel that she saw right through him. </p><p>He was damn proud of his stunt. The king in his pride thought he took him as a prisoner. A Dark Lord would never leave his realm, his army and servants voluntarily, right? He would never surrender unless he was overwhelmed by his opponent's power and magnificence, right? It wouldn't certainly occur to anyone that he hated Mordor's smell and was glad to get out of there. It was so much more interesting to tempt humans, maybe even the king.</p><p>She knew.</p><p>And she smiled at him.</p><p>It took him less than three years to get from a prisoner to the king's advisor. It took her less than three days to capture his heart. </p><p>“Hi. I’m Aziraphale,” she said when she came to visit him in prison. For some reason, all guards were occupied elsewhere. “You are Sauron, right? What are you really doing here?”</p><p>He shrugged. “Oh, I just thought I’d get over here and make some trouble. I was bored in Mordor. But what are you doing here? Didn’t that peacock of a king call you Ar-Zimraphel?”</p><p>“Well, that’s how they call me in Adûnaic. But you know I’m not from here, right?”</p><p>“Yep. You are a Maia, that’s clear to every… well, to other Maiar. I don’t suppose there’s anyone else here, though.”</p><p>“No. I’m alone here.”</p><p>The tone with which she said that touched something in Crowley’s heart. </p><p>“You’re not like Melian, are you? You didn’t marry him out of love.”</p><p>She shook her head. “No. This… is not even my preferred form. I usually pick a male shaped hröa.”</p><p>“Oh. Should I call you <em> he </em> then?”</p><p>“No, no. Better not. It was hard enough to get used to <em> she </em>. But thank you for asking.”</p><p>“And you might call me Crowley if you want. I don’t like the name Sauron that much.”</p><p>“Crowley,” she smiled. “I will remember that.”</p><p>“So what are you doing here in a female hröa, Aziraphale?”</p><p>She shrugged. “Being the queen, as you see. Manwë’s orders.”</p><p>“What? Why?”</p><p>And she told him. Him, a known tempter and trouble maker who could use any of those words against her. She told him how she was sent to Númenor to prevent Ar-Pharazôn from marrying his own cousin and to make sure his line ends while the line of the Lords of Andúnië gets the throne after his death. She seemed so lonely and glad to have someone she could share her troubles with, even if it was an enemy. And he listened.</p><p>“Oh. I almost forgot,” she said after she told him everything. “I brought you oysters.”</p><p>“I've never eaten an oyster.”</p><p>“Oh. Oh, well, let me tempt you to-”</p><p>That’s all it took, really. His heart was captured.</p><p> </p><p>
  <span class="u"> 39 years ago </span>
</p><p>“Angel, they are going to cut the White Tree!” </p><p>That’s how the Númenoreans called their queen. She was their angel who always helped in need, who never turned away from them. He got used to calling her that quickly, knowing he can’t use her true name in public. </p><p>“Oh no! Can’t you stop them?” </p><p>When she turned her head, he forgot all about the tree for a moment. There was a new bruise on her cheek. His blood boiled. He wished he could send Ar-Pharazôn somewhere where he won’t ever touch her anymore. And Manwë with his orders could sod off, too. She would be able to heal it easily, but she was not allowed to, keeping her human disguise. </p><p>“Crowley!” she snapped him back into focus. “Can’t you do anything about the tree?”</p><p>“Oh, the tree. Right. I’m really sorry, angel. I’ve got orders from… you know. The Void. I can’t resist.”</p><p>“How does Morgoth even get his will to enter Arda? I thought there was no way to get anything from the Void here.”</p><p>“He… has his ways,” Crowley sighed, making sure that the Ring on his finger is hidden with an invisibility spell. She was close to figuring it out and that could be dangerous for both of them.</p><p>Sensing that it’s a topic he doesn’t want to talk about, she nodded. “You would get punished if I prevent cutting the tree, won't you?” she asked sadly.  </p><p>He didn’t answer. But he didn’t have to. </p><p>“How about the fruit, then? Could we save the fruit and grow a new seedling?”</p><p>“Well… yes. I think that could work.”</p><p>She still looked sad about the fate of Nimloth, the tree brought to Númenor as a gift from the West, a seedling of Celeborn that was a seedling of Galathilion, made in the image of Telperion that shone with silver light before Morgoth destroyed it. But there was hope in her eyes now, too. </p><p>“Elendil and his sons would take good care of the seedling,” she said.</p><p>“Then I will tempt Isildur to steal the fruit.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <span class="u">Present</span>
</p><p>The wave is coming. </p><p>“I’m sorry, angel. It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have tempted the king to attack Valinor. If I knew… I only wanted him to get away from here.”</p><p>“They were just waiting for an excuse, Crowley,” Aziraphale sighs. </p><p>“Look, even if this all ends up in a huge puddle, we can fly away together. Harad, Rhûn… Middle-earth is big, nobody would even notice us.”</p><p>“Crowley, you're being ridiculous. I-I-I'm quite sure someone would. They are keeping an eye on me. No, I have my orders. I must take the shortest route to Valinor and give my report.”</p><p>“The shortest route you mean…”</p><p>“Yes. Discorporation. A queen should stay with her people until the end, shouldn’t she?” </p><p>“You can’t be serious.”</p><p>“Just leave, Crowley. You can go anywhere.”</p><p>“Not without you.”</p><p><em> And maybe, if I discorporate here, the Ring will remain lost</em>, he adds to himself and suddenly he can watch the nearing wave with a hint of hope.</p><p>She doesn’t understand the reason, but she doesn’t press him to leave anymore. </p><p>There is nobody to hide from any longer. She extends her wings and shields Crowley with one. A futile gesture in the face of the flood, but it makes all the difference to him. </p><p>He reaches for her hand. </p><p>Then the wave swipes them and Númenor is no more.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Erebor</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>"You have sought the dragon, foolish one. But you have found your death. Behold! My armour is like tenfold shields, my teeth are swords, my claws spears, the shock of my tail a thunderbolt, my wings a hurricane, and my breath death!"</p><p>Aziraphale Pansy from the Southfarthing tilts his head. "Is that you under there, Crowley?"</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  
</p><p> </p><p>The secret passage slopes gradually downwards, into darkness. </p><p>Hobbit feet make no sound on the smooth stone that dwarven hands have chiseled long ago. </p><p>The burglar stops for a moment just where the light from the door has stretched as far as it could reach. The voices from above are muted to nothing by the stale air of the secret passage. He enjoys the silence. Dwarves are noisy, and with thirteen of them, moments when none of them would be talking are terribly scarce. </p><p>He takes a moment to himself, so rare on this journey. And then he takes another moment to gather his courage for the task that lies at the end of the passage. </p><p>A dragon.</p><p><em> Come on then old boy, buck up! </em>He tells himself and presses onward. The soft fur on his feet silences his every step. The darkness is absolute for a short stride or two, but then it dissolves into a faint reddish light. The air is growing hot and full of fumes. </p><p>The burglar slows his progress but doesn't halt his steps. The light gets stronger, and the mouth of the tunnel is now visible in front of him, bigger and bigger with every step.</p><p>And then he's standing at the threshold of an enormous underground space - the great bottommost cellar or dungeon-hall of the ancient Dwarves right at the Mountain's root.</p><p>There lies the great dragon on a bed of treasure, the countless gems and gold reflected in the smooth blackness of his obsidian-like scales. Only his underside is red as if dipped in fresh blood.</p><p>The hobbit watches in awe, entranced by the elegant curves of the scaled body. He doesn’t look afraid, though. “Hello?” he calls. </p><p>Suddenly the dragon opens his eyes, revealing irises like burning honey and vertical pupils that seem bottomless and worth falling into.</p><p>The pupils narrow even more, scanning the surroundings. And then the great serpent speaks, his voice booming in the vast space and returning in hundreds of echoes.  "You have sought the dragon, foolish one. But you have found your death. Behold!" He spreads his wings, spanning the whole room. "My armour is like tenfold shields, my teeth are swords, my claws spears, the shock of my tail a thunderbolt, my wings a hurricane, and my breath death!"</p><p>The hobbit tilts his head. "Is that you under there, Crowley?"</p><p>"Aziraphale? What are you doing here?"</p><p>"Me? What are <em> you </em> doing here? You are… a <em> dragon </em>?"</p><p>"What kind of stupid question is that? You can see I'm a dragon! What else am I going to be, an aardvark?" Crowley huffs and then takes a careful look at Aziraphale. "And what are you, actually?"</p><p>"Oh. I'm a hobbit, of course." Aziraphale bowed as if in introduction. "At your service."</p><p>"What?"</p><p>"That's a greeting. The reply is 'at yours and your family's'."</p><p>"Oh, come on," the dragon rolls his eyes. "You don't have a family."</p><p>"Well, no, but family is important to hobbits. You don't need to have any living relatives, but you still belong to a family. Or pretend to, if you are a Maia in hobbit disguise. That's why everyone has a family name." </p><p>"Oh? What's yours?"</p><p>Aziraphale fearlessly walks closer to the dragon and sits down on a pile of gold, making himself as comfortable as possible there. "I'm Aziraphale Pansy from the Southfarthing."</p><p>The dragon blows a bit of smoke from his nostrils. "At your service, Aziraphale Pansy."</p><p>"Thank you, my dear," Aziraphale smiles. "Mind if I smoke too?"</p><p>"Wait, are you meaning to tell me that hobbits breathe fire?"</p><p>Aziraphale chuckles and takes out his pipe. "No. They just inhale the smoke from the pipe-weed." He produces a little bag and shows Crowley the crushed herb before he stuffs it into the pipe and lights it with a match. </p><p>A few moments later, he blows a perfect smoke ring.</p><p>"Woah!" Crowley exclaims. "How did you do that?"</p><p>Aziraphale explains. It needs a subtle miracle to make up for the different shape of the dragon's mouth, but soon enough two sets of smoke rings are rising to the ceiling of the underground treasury, one much bigger than the other. The smaller rings pass through the big ones and intertwine with them. </p><p>"So what brings you here, really?" Crowley asks after a while of companionable silence. </p><p>"Well, to tell the truth, I'm on a quest to help Thorin and his company to reclaim their home."</p><p>"Thorin? Who's Thorin?"</p><p>"Uhm… a dwarf? Thorin Oakenshield. Long, white beard, usually wears sky-blue hood with a silver tassel, plays the harp rather nicely…"</p><p>"Doesn't ring a bell."</p><p>"Indeed not. He knocks like he would want to tear down your door… ah. You mean… Well, he's the grandson of Thrór. You know, the one who used to be a king here? Before you took the place from him? Why the hell did you do that, Crowley?"</p><p>"Ahhhh… <em> That </em> Thorin," Crowley has the decency to look sheepish. "Yeah… sorry 'bout that. I just needed the gold. I asked nicely, but they didn't want to give it."</p><p>"Oh, come on, have you ever heard of a dwarf willingly parting with his gold? What did you even need it for?"</p><p>Crowley looks away. "I… um… wanted to take a nap on it? Anyway, how the hell did you want to take the Mountain from a dragon? And where even are those dwarves of yours? Are they letting you do the dirty work, angel?"</p><p>"No, no," Aziraphale says quickly. "I told them I'm just going to sneak ahead and assess the situation."</p><p>"And then what?"</p><p>"Well… I hoped to talk to the dragon and convince him to leave the Mountain."</p><p>Crowley snorts. "You wanted to <em> talk </em> to the dragon?"</p><p>"Well, I'm talking to you, am I not?"</p><p>"Yes, but that's <em> me </em>! You didn't know it's going to be me! What if there would be some other, dangerous dragon?"</p><p>"Then I'd have to be a bit more convincing, I guess."</p><p>The dragon snorts again. "So no restrictions on using your powers this time?"</p><p>"Not as strict as before. I still shouldn't do any frivolous miracles or reveal myself to the Children. But sometimes I pose as a wizard, and then I can do some magic even with others looking. Well, mostly I do fireworks and coin tricks, but a miracle or two can get unnoticed in the middle of that."</p><p>"Coin tricks? Seriously?"</p><p>"Yes," Aziraphale beams. "It's rather fun. Would you like me to show you?"</p><p>"No."</p><p>"I'll show you."</p><p>"I said no."</p><p>Aziraphale takes a coin from the treasure he’s sitting on. "See this coin? Oh… but now it disappeared!"</p><p>"It's in your palm."</p><p>"Where could it be? Oh, look! What is it behind your… err... " it's the moment Aziraphale realizes that (1) the dragon is too far from him to reach behind his ear and that (2) he doesn't have visible ears (do dragons have ears?). "...behind my ear?" he pulls out the coin from there.</p><p>"It was in your palm the whole time."</p><p>Aziraphale huffs. "Dwarves don't like disappearing coins, either. Hobbits appreciate the trick much more."</p><p>"But why a hobbit?" Crowley asks before Aziraphale gets the idea to do another magic trick.</p><p>"Oh, it's a perfect form," Aziraphale wiggles happily. "They are a peaceful folk who appreciate good food and tales. They have seven meals a day, Crowley. Seven!" </p><p>"So Manwë let you pick this time?"</p><p>"Yes. He just sent me to watch over Middle-earth. I'm allowed to pick any form I want, as long as it can blend in among the Children."</p><p>"He sent you alone? To watch over the whole Middle-earth?"</p><p>"Well… the other Valar wanted to send five Maiar for the job, but since I did well in Númenor, he said I can do it alone." He looks away. "I don't think I did well in Númenor."</p><p>"You couldn't do anything to stop it, angel."</p><p>Aziraphale doesn't reply.</p><p>"So walk around Middle-earth as a hobbit, huh?" Crowley asks, trying to change the topic.</p><p>"Not all the time," Aziraphale says, still looking down. "Outside of the Shire I usually travel as an old man. You know, for the whole wizard aesthetic. Long grey beard, bushy eyebrows, pointy hat... But I met Thorin in Bree where I've been as a hobbit, so that's how I went with him on this quest."</p><p>"I see. But Aziraphale, please understand this. I can't leave. I need the gold."</p><p>"What? Why? I knew you were fond of bling, but this much?"</p><p>Now the dragon looks away without a reply.</p><p>"What have you been up to during the Third age, anyway?" Aziraphale tries to talk around the topic. "I haven't heard of you since you have been defeated in the Battle of the Last Alliance. I worried you might not get another corporation again. And here you are, a dragon."</p><p>"I wasn't discorporated," Crowley says quietly. </p><p>Aziraphale waits, but the dragon doesn't elaborate. A few smoke rings rise to the dimly lit ceiling in the stretching silence. </p><p>Finally, Crowley sighs. "Aziraphale, I'm sorry I can't give up my treasure. I'm protecting it… because it's protecting me."</p><p>Aziraphale thinks for a while. "All right, my dear. If you need it, I shall try to convince the dwarves to leave it to you. Maybe they accept it, or at least some arrangement can be made…"</p><p>Crowley breaths out, a single wisp of smoke rising towards one of the rings and entwining with it like a snake passing through a halo.</p><p>"You're not going to argue?" he asks. "You're not going to ask?"</p><p>Aziraphale leans back on the pile of gold. "If you say the gold is protecting you, then I believe you," he says simply.</p><p>Crowley remembers a white wing extended over him protectively. </p><p>He makes a decision. "You deserve to know."</p><p>"I mean… if you do not mind sharing it…"</p><p>Crowley sighs. "I wasn't discorporated in the Battle of the Last Alliance. I was freed."</p><p>"Freed?"</p><p>"Back on Númenor, you wondered how Morgoth gets his will to enter Arda, remember? It's through a Ring. A Ring of Power that he forged before he was cast out. I kept it hidden on Númenor, but that's how I got my orders."</p><p>"A Ring." Aziraphale's voice sounds a bit faint. </p><p>"Yes. I hoped if I discorporated on Númenor, the Ring might get lost in the sea. Well," Crowley sighs, "it didn't. It got back to me like it always does."</p><p>"Until Isildur took it."</p><p>"Until Isildur took it. And didn't destroy it when he got a chance," Crowley growls. A little flame licks the gold in front of the dragon’s maw. “Oops, sorry…” </p><p>“If Morgoth’s will is in the Ring, I don’t blame him,” Aziraphale says softly. </p><p>Crowley sighs. “Yeah… I don’t, either. But now the Ring is still out there and is trying to get back to me. That’s why the gold. It’s the same substance as the Ring is made of, and for some reason can block its perception.”</p><p>“I see…” Aziraphale murmurs. He subconsciously reaches into his pocket and plays with something there. </p><p>“Yeah, so that’s what I’ve been doing. Taking a nap on a pile of gold for the last century or so… what’s the year, by the way?”</p><p>“2941.”</p><p>“Ah. More than a century, then. But what about you? Had any interesting adventures with this Thorin?”</p><p>“Oh, well…” Aziraphale smiles nervously, “a few. We’ve run into some trolls, stone giants, then the dwarves got captured by goblins and after I rescued them, we got separated in the tunnels, but, um… we managed to regroup outside, that’s all what’s worth mentioning about that incident. Then we got chased by those goblins and ended up in some fir trees. That were on fire. But the Eagles rescued us. Then there was the incident with the elven king… you know, elves and dwarves. We escaped the elven prison by the means of floating barrels on a river and, well… here we are.”</p><p>“That sounds like quite an adventure.”</p><p>“Yes. Quite.”</p><p>Aziraphale smokes quietly for a while, appearing deep in thoughts. Then he looks at the dragon.</p><p>“Crowley… do you trust me?”</p><p>“Sure, angel.”</p><p>“If I tell you that the Ring will not get back to you if you leave the gold, would you believe me?”</p><p>The dragon narrows his eyes. “If anyone else would be saying that, I would think they are just trying to get rid of me. But you, I would believe.”</p><p>“Thank you, my dear. I can't tell you more right now, but that is what I'm telling you. And I swear that your trust is not misplaced.”</p><p>Crowley remains silent for some time. “It would be nice to stretch my wings again,” he says finally. "I'm getting sick of being trapped here."</p><p>“Where would you go?”</p><p>“I don’t know.”</p><p>“You could come with me if you would like. Not in this form, of course.”</p><p>Crowley shakes his head. “My Ring is not the only one spreading Morgoth’s will in Middle-earth. He would know.”</p><p>Aziraphale smiles sadly. “I’m sorry. Perhaps one day we could… I don't know. Go for a picnic. Dine at the Prancing Pony.”</p><p>“Perhaps,” Crowley nods. “So, before I leave and the dwarves get in, anything you would like from the treasure? My treat…”</p><p>“Well, actually… there should be one gem that would be really handy to me. Ever heard of the Arkenstone?”</p><p>“No.”</p><p>“It should be a globe with a thousand facets, with its own inner light, and reflecting all light that falls on it in sparks of white radiance,” Aziraphale says. “Not a Silmaril though, thank Eru.”</p><p>“Ah, that one! Yeah, sure… got it somewhere here…” The dragon turns his great body around, searching in a far corner of the room. “I had to stash it away, I couldn’t sleep because of it. Ah, here!” He takes it carefully into his maw and puts it in front of Aziraphale.</p><p>Aziraphale pats the black scales affectionately. “Thank you, my dear. It will come handy for the bargaining I foresee if Thorin doesn’t get a tad less stubborn.”</p><p>“Good luck with that. And I should go. I guess that Thorin &amp; company will get impatient soon and I don’t really want to meet them, so…”</p><p>“Yes. Goodbye, my dear. We will meet again in this Age, please believe me.”</p><p>“I do. Goodbye, angel.”</p><p>The dragon crawls across the piles of gold, towards the broad tunnel leading to the front gate. </p><p>Aziraphale follows him as if trying to get just a moment longer.</p><p>The dragon climbs on the battlement of the gate, his silhouette dark against the cloudy sky. He turns back to look at the hobbit once more, and then he spreads his majestic wings and flies away.</p><p>Aziraphale watches after him until the dragon is just a dot in the sky. Then he reaches into his pocket and takes out a ring. It's a simple golden band, smooth and unadorned. </p><p>"I won't let it enthrall you again," he whispers.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Mordor</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Hastur laughs. "Hinder me? You fool. No living man may hinder me!"</p><p>"A man?" Aziraphale raises his eyebrows. "I think perhaps you've got the wrong impression. I'm not a man, I'm a hobbit. And a Pansy, if you don't mind."</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This is the "story" in the trilogy of two pictures and one story. I added the graphic violence warning and some tags because things are getting dark here, similarly to the last book of the LotR trilogy (maybe even a little more). There will also be an epilogue posted in a few days.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Crowley is unrestful. He's thinking about </span>
  <em>
    <span>it</span>
  </em>
  <span> again. It's been years now. He thought the Ring might be lost forever. Aziraphale hinted at something like that when they last met. But no, it's not lost. Three days ago, he felt its calling clearly. The Ring wanted to get to its Master. And then it suddenly got silent again. Crowley has been tense ever since. Feeling that call once means he can feel it again. It can come at any time. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And now a groveling orc is requesting an audience with him in an urgent matter. He hates groveling orcs. He hates urgent matters. Usually, it's some disagreement between the Captains that got unreasonably bloody, something broken, or some other ordinary cock-up. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I'm Shagrat, my Lord Sauron," the orc introduces himself. "I bring news from Cirith Ungol."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Yeah?" Crowley shifts on his high throne, hanging one leg over the armrest.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"A spy, my Lord. We've captured him near Shelob's lair."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"A human?" Crowley asks, the leg bouncing unrestfully. The Ithilien rangers sometimes get bold and stick their noses where they shouldn’t. Another such fool, probably.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well… not quite. Not a human, but not an elf or dwarf, either. Uhm, don’t know what he actually is, I’ve never seen such a guy before.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Suddenly Crowley has a bad feeling. “Bigger than a human?” he asks and hopes the answer would be yes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, not bigger. Smaller, actually… Like this,” Shagrat raises his hand to the height of a regular hobbit, and Crowley’s heart sinks. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Quite a warrior, though,” Shagrat continues, unaware that his words are iron boots treading on the heart of his Master. “Shelob stung him, but he didn’t go limp right away like most of them, yeah? Must have surprised her, when he still fought after that. Stuck a pin in her and she fled. Made a nasty mess all the way back to that cursed crack of hers, goo everywhere. Only then he went as limp as boned fish, my lads found ‘im like that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley nods faintly. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Don’t be ridiculous</span>
  </em>
  <span>, he tells himself. </span>
  <em>
    <span>What would Aziraphale be doing here, in Mordor? He’s surely somewhere in the Shire, having one of those seven meals a day that Hobbits have. Maybe it’s not Aziraphale.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oi, got his things here!” Shagrat remembers suddenly and takes out something from his bag, wrapped in raw leather. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley takes the package. He unwraps it hastily and throws away the leather. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There is a short sword, more of a dagger in Crowley’s hands. An ancient Elvish blade that he has seen before. He has also seen the mithril coat. He remembers sleeping on it as a dragon. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“When was that? And where is he now?” he asks in a disinterested voice, his face a mask hiding a rising panic. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Three days ago, I left to let you know as soon as he was captured. He’s up in the tower of Cirith Ungol, with one of the Nazgûl questioning him. Lord Hastur, I think. A bit hard to tell with the hoods, yeah?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Leave,” Crowley says.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Shagrat recognizes a death threat when he hears one. He doesn’t look back until he is safely out of the main gate of Barad dûr. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley, who is in Mordor called Sauron, jumps out of the window and spreads his wings, willing them to carry him faster as he flies West over the smoking Mount Doom and across the Plain of Gorgoroth, towards the tiered Tower of Cirith Ungol built from black stone. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There, at the uppermost floor of the tower, is a room where valuable prisoners are kept. He lands on the highest terrace and hurries there, ignoring more groveling orcs. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The commander of the tower, a black Uruk named Gorbag, approaches him. "My Lord Sauron! The prisoner's upstairs. I'm sorry we didn’t get anything useful out of him yet. Wraith Hastur has been called off by the Witch King for the attack on Minas Tirith and we didn’t dare to question him on our own. I hope we did well…"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Yes. Excellent," Crowley presses the words through his teeth. "Now leave me alone. If anyone disturbs me while I'm interrogating the prisoner, they're dead. Understood?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Understood it is, and so he soon ascends the stairs, taking three at once, and climbs the ladder fearing what he will find behind the trapdoor. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He sees a big round room, a red lamp hung from the ceiling casting ghastly shadows across the floor. There are heavy shackles hanging from the wall. And under the window on the far side of the room, a small naked figure lies huddled on the floor. The smell of blood and something burnt is thick in the room.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley recognizes the white curls immediately. Only they aren't white now. They are grimy, dark red with crusted blood in several places. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn't know how he crossed the distance to Aziraphale, but in the next moment he is kneeling at his side, taking in the pale skin criss-crossed with whip welts, burns, and wounds, some still bleeding sluggishly. A worrisome amount of blood is pooled on the floor. And on the back of his neck, there is a circular wound, inflamed and angry: the trace of the poisonous sting.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Aziraphale," Crowley whispers through the lump in his throat, but the maia in the form of a hobbit doesn't answer. His skin radiates fever and his cracked lips suggest he hasn't been given anything to drink since his capture. But his eyebrows, drawn together in pain, move slightly, and a quiet moan escapes his lips. Not unconscious then, just too weak to answer. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley touches the feverish brow gently. "Aziraphale? I'm here. You are safe now."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale raises a trembling hand as if to protect himself, but doesn't have the strength to keep it in place.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Angel, it's me! Crowley…"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>One glossy eye opens in a narrow slit, trying to focus on the speaker and failing. Aziraphale moans. "You…"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Yes."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale shakes his head unhappily. "No. You… shouldn’t… be here…"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley huffs. "Me? </span>
  <em>
    <span>You</span>
  </em>
  <span> shouldn't be here, you stupid hobbit!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale doesn't reply as his face contorts in pain. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley takes Aziraphale's hand. "I'm exactly where I should be, and I'm going to take care of you," he says through the lump in his throat. “Give me a moment, yeah? I’m not leaving, just need to scream at some orcs. Be right back, okay?” He presses the hand reassuringly but gently, mindful of the injuries, and then leans over the trapdoor and yells. “Gorbag, you rat! Or whoever! I need something!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There is no answer for a while. Probably because of his earlier threat. Typical.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I won’t kill the one who comes here right away!” he yells again. “Not so sure about the others…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A groveling orc finally appears under the trapdoor. “My Lord?” he asks. Grovelingly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey! It’s uncomfortable here! I want to take my time with the prisoner but I don’t even have anything to sit on here! Bring me the cleanest blankets you have, and the best food and water! For washing too, I’m all dusty from the flight! Now hurry up! Chop chop!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The orc scutters away and Crowley hurries back to Aziraphale. “Soon we will make this better, okay?” he whispers.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It indeed doesn’t take long. Crowley takes everything and then pulls up the ladder and closes the trapdoor, blocking it. He takes the pitcher with water first and pours it into a copper cup that he brings to Aziraphale. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Here, you must be so thirsty…" he says compassionately and supports Aziraphale’s head to help him drink. The eager gulps Aziraphale takes are the only answer he gets and needs. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then he spreads one blanket on the cold floor. "I'm sorry, angel," he says while moving Aziraphale on it as gently as he can, "I didn’t dare to ask for bandages, would be too obvious. But we can tear one of the blankets. I wish I could heal you, but I don't have such powers as you do. You used to belong to Estë's maiar before you've been sent to Númenor, didn’t you? I used to work with Varda before Morgoth swayed me. Making stars and everything. But, no healing. Really sorry. Have to do it the harder way, so when you're feeling better, don’t be too polite to redo the job properly, yeah?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale cries out weakly as his wounds are stirred but still doesn't reply. His skin is pale and clammy and the fever seems to be rising.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley curses under his breath. A reprieve from the pain - that’s what Aziraphale needs most now. He's no expert on sleeping enchantments, but Aziraphale is too exhausted to resist it. He weaves the spell in his hands and then puts them on Aziraphale's brow.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale jerks his head away in sudden panic, then curls in pain from the sudden movement.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"What…"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Can’t," Aziraphale says urgently, sounding more present now, but only thanks to a great effort of will. "Can’t sleep."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Of course you can sleep, angel. You’re in pain. In sleep, you won’t feel it when I tend to your wounds. It will help you heal."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Please… I can't!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley bites his lip. "Fine. As you want. But I need to clean the wounds and I fear it will hurt. If you change your mind…"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale sags with relief. "Thank you…"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley grumbles sometimes unintelligible and reaches for the washcloth and a basin with water.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The water soon turns red.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale moans and weeps. He never asks for the sleeping spell. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley speaks to him quietly, trying to distract him from the pain. "I never asked to be a Dark Lord, you know? I was just minding my own business one day and then… oh, lookie here, it's Melkor and the guys. Oh, hey, the food hadn't been that good lately. I didn’t have anything on for the rest of that afternoon. Next thing, I'm in a dark and smelly place commanding an army of orcs."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He has a thousand questions to Aziraphale, but they can wait for now. Now he just talks about whatever comes to his mind. He's not sure if the Aziraphale is listening to him at all. He can see the struggle to not pass out when the pain gets too much. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And then Aziraphale actually passes out when Crowley sets his dislocated shoulder and Crowley suddenly feels it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It's like a hook buried into his thoughts, pulling him towards Aziraphale's hand. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It's like an irresistible temptation, calling to him. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Look. Take. Yours</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He looks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There's a ring on Aziraphale's finger. It wasn't visible before. A concealment spell, just like Crowley used on Númenor. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It's </span>
  <em>
    <span>the</span>
  </em>
  <span> Ring. It calls to him, impossible to resist. Morgoth’s will from the Void.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He reaches his shaking hand to take it. He tugs on it without any regard to the hurt fingers. Someone has pulled their fingernails and two fingers look dislocated or even broken. He doesn't care. The Ring is everything he can perceive. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale stirs and opens his bleary eyes. Then he realises what’s happening and jerks his hand back. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley doesn't let go, his fingers pressing so strongly that his nails draw blood. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale stops resisting. Instead, he frowns in focus. He moans low in his throat and it looks like he's shouldering a heavy burden.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Suddenly Crowley can think. He realizes what he is doing and stares at the bloody traces of his fingers. Then he looks into Aziraphale's eyes, the shock clearly visible in his serpentine ones.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I… I'm sorry…" Aziraphale rasps, his eyes filling with tears faster than they did through the worst of the pain.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"No, no! I hurt you! I'm sorry, I… couldn’t control myself, I… Aziraphale. What are you doing with my Ring? You… You're shielding me from it, aren't you?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Y-Yes."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"That’s why you can't sleep? Oh damn… If you do, your control of it slips… That’s why I felt it three days ago. You've been unconscious then..."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale sighs. He looks terribly tired. “I’m so sorry. Should have… destroyed it years ago… when it was easier… But I waited. I knew it would hurt you. I didn’t want to… It didn’t take much effort… to block His will. I thought I could do it all the time. Turns out, He just wasn’t focusing on it. But now it started stirring. He’s trying to reach you. I can’t… can’t hold Him much longer. It must be destroyed… so sorry...”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Aziraphale,” Crowley says in a thin voice. “Aziraphale, look at me. Don’t be sorry. You have nothing to be sorry for. You… fuck, you are shielding me. From Him. They tortured you. You’re in pain… And you’re still shielding me. I don’t know how to thank you. Just tell me how did you… Wait, no. Actually, don’t speak now, okay? Save your strength. I’ll take care of you, and then you can tell me how you got it when you’re feeling better.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale nods faintly and his eyebrows furrow as he focuses on the mental shield. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley tears another strip from the blanket and continues cleaning and bandaging the wounds, as gently as he can. None of them are life-threatening, that would be counterproductive when interrogating a prisoner - even Hastur knows that. They are meant to cause excruciating pain though, focusing on the most sensitive parts of the body. Hands and fingers, the soles of feet... Apparently Hastur found hobbit feet to be rather tough and was too stubborn to admit it because they are burnt rather badly. Aziraphale’s breath hitches, beads of sweat running down his temples as Crowley works on them. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then it is done. There are no more blankets, but Crowley covers Aziraphale with his cloak and helps him drink again. “Do you want to try to eat something?” he asks faintly. “No, probably not right now, yeah?” he answers himself, watching Aziraphale’s pale face. It has an expression that seems dangerously close to throwing up. Or crying out in pain. Probably both at once and the remnants of Shelob's poisons still circulating in his system are just making it worse.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"What you most need now is rest, right?" Crowley murmurs with a sad shake of his head. That’s when he gets an idea. He studies the shackles on the wall for a moment. Then he assures that the trapdoor is closed properly and wedges it with the ladder. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Aziraphale," he says urgently. "I need you to pay attention now. Are you listening to me?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It takes a moment, but finally Aziraphale focuses his eyes on Crowley and gives a little nod.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Good. That’s good. Because I need you to do something,” Crowley speaks, slowly and clearly. “I'm going to shackle myself now so that you can let go of the mental shield, rest, and heal. But I can't have the key within my reach, that wouldn't end well. I'll give it to you, okay? You rest as long as you need and when you're better, you unlock me. Do you think you'll be able to do that?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale judges the distance to the shackles, his gaze now almost fully alert and concerned. Then it turns to Crowley's face and studies it carefully. “I may sleep long…” he whispers.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, that’s okay,” Crowley nods encouragingly. “That’s the idea. Sleep as long as you need to.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are we safe here, though?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well… I’ll put it this way. About as safe as anywhere else in Mordor, including my own chambers. That is, not much, but you can’t get anything better.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale sighs. It can be seen in his face that he doesn’t like doing this, hates himself for doing it even, but recognizes the necessity. “Yes, I can unlock you, if I can rest long enough.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Great! Now, do you have everything you need? More water? Try the food, maybe?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Just water.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay. The food is here, within reach. It’s just bread and some dried meat, can’t expect anything better from Mordor. I bet it doesn’t compare to hobbit cuisine.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No... really not.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thought so. Anyway, the water…” He helps Aziraphale drink again and then refills the cup, leaving it at his side too. “And here’s the key.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He places it next to Aziraphale’s hand and then tears a broad strip from the remnants of the blanket. “Just don’t do anything unplanned, yeah? Like getting worse. That would be really stupid if you get worse and I’m bound here.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If I get worse, I won't be able to shield you. It’s better that you’re bound…” Aziraphale says with a deep weariness in his voice.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley bites his lip. “Yeah. Okay. I’ll just… uhm… bind my mouth, so I don’t call someone here. And don’t disturb you. Rest well, angel.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He bites into the cloth and makes a firm knot on the back of his head. Then he checks everything again, making sure the key and anything Azirphale could need is within his reach. He puts his hand into one of the shackles and closes it with an ominous click. With a great degree of contortion, he manages to close the second one as well and nods to Aziraphale. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He sees the expressions passing over the tense face. Aziraphale watches him with concern. Then a weary acceptance as he closes his eyes. It looks like a terrible strain is loosening, like a relief from a great burden. Aziraphale sighs, his features relaxing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley smiles with that sight. Then Morgoth’s will grabs his mind and pulls it towards the golden band now visible on the hobbit's finger. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Take it. Yours. Only yours. And you are mine. Mine… MINE!</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>For a few moments, he stays perfectly still, resisting. But the roots are too deep in his mind, the hold too strong. That’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>his</span>
  </em>
  <span> Ring! His own! His Precious… Nobody else has the right to wear it, nobody! He needs to get it! But he is bound… His Ring is so close, calling to him and someone else is wearing it. Furiously, he struggles against the bonds. He tries to call out but there's a gag in his mouth. The Ring is so close, but he can't reach it. It's torture. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Time blurs in the futile struggle. It feels like days. Like years. So close. So close. His! Only his! His own! He needs…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He needs…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale needs rest. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Crowley…" </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale. He… He's close. His eyes. Looking at him. From close. The gag is gone. What…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I'm so sorry, Crowley…"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"What…"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale’s eyes are sad. His shoulders bent like under a heavy burden. Oh.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You're shielding the Ring again, aren't you?" Crowley rasps.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I'm sorry I left you in its influence so long, Crowley," Aziraphale whispers, fumbling with the shackles. His poor fingers don't look much better than before and he has trouble with turning the key.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He manages to unlock one bond and Crowley takes the key from his trembling hands and unlocks the second one. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Not that Crowley’s hands would be less shaky. He slumps, his wrists rubbed raw from the bonds.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale tries to support him, but he's too weak and hisses in pain as it strains his wounds. His wrists bear similar marks from the same shackles. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley shifts immediately, taking his weight off Aziraphale. "Why are you freeing me?" he snarls. "You were supposed to get enough rest to be able to heal yourself!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"No time," Aziraphale whispers urgently. "Someone's coming."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley reaches out with his otherworldly senses, still shaky but fully alert now. "Shit. Two Nazgûl."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Sauron! Sauron!" </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He recognizes Ligur's voice from below the trapdoor.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"We only want a little word with you! We know you're in there!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley's eyes wander around the room and stop on the red lamp, still burning. There's about a third of oil left in it. He nods to himself. That would do. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale can barely stand, but he shifts into a defensive stance, feet rooted in the floor despite the burns on his soles, hands ready to strike even without a weapon.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There is a thud on the door.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley takes the lamp with his bare hands. It’s hot, but it doesn’t harm him - he used to be a fire spirit before clothing himself with a body, a flame that lit up Varda’s stars. But it’s heavy, and he’s still shaken from Morgoth’s intrusion into his mind.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>More thuds. Someone is trying to get in.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale takes hold of Crowley’s forearms and steadies his hands. Together they move the lamp over the trapdoor.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The hinges creak. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They wait.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Oh!" Crowley mutters. "I almost forgot…" He hands Aziraphale the hobbit-sized sword that he got from Shagrat.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale grasps it with both hands, immediately ready to use it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Another thud.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The hinges give way and the ladder clatters away across the floor. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Naur an edraith ammen!" Crowley exclaims and opens the lamp. Burning oil douses a black cape.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There is a high, shrill scream.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s coming from the other Nazgûl as he watches his colleague burn. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hi,” Crowley says coldly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You… you…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m your Lord and I said I’ll kill the one who disturbs me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You are dead meat, Sauron.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley recognizes Morgorth’s voice in the intonation. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Shit</span>
  </em>
  <span>. The stunt with the Ring got him revealed, apparently. He glances at Aziraphale. The other maia looks determined but rather pale. Blood is seeping through his bandages.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley jumps to him and wraps his arms around Aziraphale before Hastur can get to them. His black wings unfold from the hidden plane and with one beat carry him to the window high in the wall. It’s narrow, but he has always been rather slender. Aziraphale hasn’t, but is now, worn down by years of mental struggle and hard journeys. They squeeze through it and then fall for a moment before Crowley manages to catch the air under his wings. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He flies straight towards the smoking mountain on the eastern horizon and doesn’t look back. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Too soon he hears the sound of two greater, featherless wings from behind. A fell beast is pursuing him and he has no doubt about who’s riding it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He forces his wings to beat faster. They ache and burn with the effort, but Hastur’s mount is catching up with him. He's doing his best, but he's exhausted and carrying a burden. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He can feel the fell beast's stench, feel its breath on his feathers.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Sauron!" he hears Hastur's voice. "You can't escape me!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He tries to prove that statement wrong, suddenly changing direction in an evasive maneuver.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn’t prove anything as the fell beast stretches its neck and bites, as fast as an attacking viper. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Pain erupts in his wing, sharp and overwhelming, flooding his senses like the wave of Númenor.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Black wings beat frantically, a bird throwing itself against the bars of a cage.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hastur laughs and Morgorth’s sneer can be heard in it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Black wings beat harder. Torn feathers spiral towards the ground.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Something tears.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Suddenly gravity is pulling him instead of the fell beast's strong jaws. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He tries to escape its hold, one wing beating fast, the other one twitching in pain. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The ground nears with every turn of a downward spiral.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He embraces Aziraphale more firmly, tries to shield him as he crashes and tumbles among the black rocks. Pain flares as his torn wing hits something. It's sharp and red, then fades and darkens… darkens into nothingness…</span>
</p>
<hr/><p>
  <span>"Do what you will, but I will hinder it, if I may," Aziraphale's voice pierces the darkness. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley opens his eyes to see Aziraphale's bare and hurt feet, planted firmly in the ash and dust in front of him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hastur laughs. "Hinder me? You fool. No living man may hinder me!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"A man?" Aziraphale raises his eyebrows. "I think perhaps you've got the wrong impression. I'm not a man, I'm a hobbit. And a Pansy, if you don't mind."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hastur seems to get a bit unsure, but the fell beast snaps its maw at Aziraphale.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The hobbit steps aside and his sword slides across the beast's neck. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Black blood gushes forth. The beast reels then falls down and thrashes on the ground, bleeding out from a deep gash in its neck. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hastur falls off in its deathly throws, but immediately gets up and swings his mace against Aziraphale.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley tries to move. It feels like forgetting how to run in a dream, like swimming in honey. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale is faster. He jumps up on the dying beast to make up for the height difference, blocks with his left hand, and drives his short sword into the emptiness under the Nazgûl's hood. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The sword shatters. An inhuman wail pierces the air. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The shards fall on the ground slowly... so slowly. Crowley can take in every detail of the scene, can see everything but his moves are so damn sluggish, lagging behind his thoughts. He sees a dead fell beast, steaming black blood on the ground where it poured from its neck. He sees an empty black cloak floating slowly to the ground. It smells of poo. He sees a hobbit swaying on his feet, his face pale and eyes distant. Blood drips from his left hand, clearly broken where it caught the blow of the mace.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Torturously slow, he runs to the hobbit. His torn wing drags on the ground after him like a ball and chain of pain. Still, he manages to catch Aziraphale before he falls. He gently lowers him to the ground and makes him lean against his shoulder.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then time resumes its usual pace.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"C-Crowley… I need to stay awake. Help me."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>For a moment Crowley’s throat clenches. Aziraphale is still maintaining the mental shield. Of course he is… the fact that he's not trying the claw the Ring from Aziraphale's finger is a sure giveaway.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Yes," he manages finally. "Yes, of course. Just stay with me, all right? Focus on my voice. We're going to do this together, okay? I'm not going anywhere. No more leaving, from now on we will be together, until the very end."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale smiles faintly, looking more alert now. "Wily serpent…" he murmurs. "You always knew… to tempt with what one desires most…"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley gulps. "Ngk. You… you do? I really meant it."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"In that case," Aziraphale says quietly, new determination in his eyes, "let's do this together."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Yeah, that’s the spirit. If you can hold on for a moment, I'll just put a spell of non-detection over us. Everyone in miles must have heard that scream, soon we will get a swarm of orcs poking around." Crowley focuses, shielding them from prying eyes. "There… now, what were you thinking, blocking a mace with your bare hand?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale doesn't answer, just clenches his teeth.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I see…" Crowley murmurs. "It's bleeding, I need to bind it. Are you still dizzy? May I touch it now?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale keeps his teeth clenched, but takes several deep breaths, bracing himself. Then he nods. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley tears a wide piece from his cloak and binds the wound as gently as he can, stopping anytime Aziraphale's look gets unfocused. He talks as he works, distracting him from the pain - or so he hopes, at least. It certainly works as a distraction from his own pain, he only remembers the wing approximately every three seconds. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"That was amazing," he says at one point, "no, </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span> are amazing. First Shelob and now Hastur. I guess people underestimate hobbits a lot, don’t they? Yes, I know you're a maia, but you didn't pick the form just for the seven meals a day, did you?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale nods faintly. "They're very resilient," he says through gritted teeth. "Very fond of comfort, but can stand for themselves when pressed."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Yeah, that’s what I thought," Crowley says and carefully maneuvers the broken hand into a sling.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale can't get much paler than he already is, but the effort of maintaining the shield through the procedure is clearly visible in his face.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Your wing…" are his first words after it's done and he can speak again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley pulls his wings out of the material plane, hiding them. "What about it?" he asks innocently.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"It's hurt," Aziraphale insists.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I know. We'll have to walk, I fear."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Crowley!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Angel," Crowley sighs. "I know what you mean. But there's nothing to be done about it right now. It's hidden, so it doesn't move and can't get worse - much more convenient than your sling."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale sighs, but accepts Crowley’s words because they are true - there's nothing to be done. He can’t keep up the shield and heal at the same time. "You have other wounds…" he points out instead.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley looks at himself. There are indeed scrapes and bruises from his fall. He has barely registered them through the pain in the wing. "Nothing serious," he says and hopes it's actually true. He turns his eyes to Aziraphale.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The other maia is almost naked, just as Crowley found him in the tower. The bandages covering the wounds from the torture are seeping blood again. He's shivering, but it's hard to tell if it's from pain, cold, or exhaustion. Probably all at once. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh! You must be so cold, I’m sorry…” Crowley immediately takes off his tunic. “Do you think you can put it on?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale carefully maneuvers one hand into the sleeve, leaving the other sleeve dangling empty. The tunic is too big for him, reaching all the way to his knees.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What about this?” Crowley asks, raising the remnants of his cloak. “Do you want to wear it or should I tear it to bandages? It can’t be both, I fear.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Wear, for now,” Aziraphale says shortly and Crowley wraps him in the cloak.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Okay. I know it will hurt anyway, but what position would be most comfortable when I carry you?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You're not going to carry me, Crowley," Aziraphale hisses indignantly. "You're hurt and exhausted, I let you struggle in the bonds for… for… I fear I lost track of time there but it has been too long."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"And you have been tortured, you idiot! Just look at your feet, how do you want to walk through all those sharp rocks?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"As I said, hobbits are very resilient. And I got some rest, thanks to you. I'm tickety-boo."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Yeah, followed by a hit from a mace and a shock of killing a Nazgûl, probably."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"It's not worse than resisting Morgoth’s will," Aziraphale murmurs. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Yes, and that! You're bloody doing it as we speak, and you want to walk in addition to that."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale closes his eyes tiredly. "I do…" He looks at Crowley. "Or are you absolutely certain you can carry me all the way? I can walk now, but I'm not sure I'll be able to later. It's getting stronger the closer we get. I'd rather have you save your strength… for when mine fails."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley bites his lip. He nods shortly, but it's just a pro forma acceptance. He doesn’t want to exhaust Aziraphale by further quarrel, but suspects his strength will fail soon enough anyway. He starts removing his boots. “You can’t walk barefoot here, the rocks are sharp.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Hobbits walk barefoot."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley throws his hands into the air. "You're unbearable!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Yes, exactly," Aziraphale smiles faintly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley rolls his eyes. "Don't you dare to distract me with puns. Hobbits might walk barefoot, but you can't right now."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And you can?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Eh, sure. A bit like walking barefoot on the beach, yeah? Nothing I haven’t done before…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale sighs resignedly. "Fine…" he murmurs. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley helps him to put on the boots. They are too big, but it will have to do. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No orcs so far…” Aziraphale remarks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley looks around. “No… I guess a Nazgûl’s dying scream is a thing an average orc would rather run away from than towards to. Makes sense, really. There’s something that killed a Nazgûl at the source of the scream, after all.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale smiles faintly. “That’s possible. Or they’re busy elsewhere. Mind giving me a hand, my dear?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re sure you want to move already?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale set his jaw. “Better not tempt our luck. How far are we?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley squints at the silhouette of the smoking mountain looming ahead. “About half-way from Cirith Ungol, I’d say.” He offers Aziraphale his hand, pulling him to his feet as gently as possible.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale sways for a moment, his eyes shut. Then he takes a deep breath. “Let’s go. A Ring to destroy. Can’t lollygag.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley shakes his head and supports him from the side. Together they walk, two small limping figures toiling through the torn ground and ashes of the plain of Gorgoroth. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The whole area is suspiciously orc-free. Until a small unit comes trotting right towards them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Down!" Crowley hisses, just in case the concealment spell has worn off. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale follows him to the ground and leans his head on Crowley’s shoulder. He looks worn out, but calm. He trusts the spell. Or rather, the caster.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Move it, you snails!” a large Uruk exclaims just as he’s at their level and Crowley flinches. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale doesn’t. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Think you can slack off, eh? You were supposed to be in Udûn yesterday evening! The army camped in front of the gates won’t wait for you, maggots!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A whip cracks, but the troop has passed them now and is getting further away without having noticed the two huddled figures. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“An army?” Crowley mouths when they don’t hear the Uruk’s yells anymore. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Aragorn,” Aziraphale replies. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What? Who? Uhm… am I supposed to know him? Did I… steal his home or something?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well…” Aziraphale makes a thoughtful expression. “That’s rather complicated. But I don’t believe you’ve ever met. He’s a friend. Accompanied me for much of the journey.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley looks at him. “I’m glad you had company, but… you were alone when I found you. Did he leave you? Because if yes, then I’ll…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, dear. He didn’t do such a thing. We split. I guess at this point I should tell you that he’s the rightful king of Gondor.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Huh.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes. Well, my task was to sneak into Mordor and he agreed to provide a distraction while helping to defend Minas Tirith. We split at Isengard. His plan was to reclaim the Orthanc stone to challenge Morgoth and provoke him to attack before he’s ready, then gather the army of Rohan and bring it to Minas Tirith. He must be camped at Morannon now, ready to fight. A distraction… so that I can pass through Mordor unnoticed.” Aziraphale looks towards the north and his expression is determined. He even gets up without Crowley’s help. “We need to go.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley does his best to support him. He backtracks in the conversation a little. “Wait… you said challenge Morgoth. This Aragorn… he knows it’s not me but Morgoth’s will behind this? How much does he know?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I told him everything, my dear. I trust him with my life.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley is quiet for a moment, complicated expressions passing over his face. “I’m glad you found someone you can trust,” he says finally, in a soft tone.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Just you and him,” Aziraphale replies. “It’s more than I could ask for.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, that’s not…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He’s a healer, you know,” Aziraphale says quietly. “From the line of Lúthien, has a bit of maiarin blood in him. When all is done here, you should seek him out. You will be safe with him.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>We</span>
  </em>
  <span> will,” Crowley corrects him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale doesn’t reply.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They walk in silence then, focusing on making one step after the other, moving ahead fathom after fathom. Hours pass and the red sun is setting behind the black mountains.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley’s feet are bleeding, torn on the sharp rocks. It's Aziraphale who falters first, though.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Let's rest, angel," Crowley says gently and Aziraphale doesn't protest as the dark maia leads him to sit down on the ground.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"So how did you find the Ring?" Crowley asks, trying to keep Aziraphale awake.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Terrible," Aziraphale mutters. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley snorts.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Ah, you mean, how it came into my possession?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Yeah, that," Crowley nods, still with a slight smirk. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Well, I found it in the tunnels under the Misty Mountains." Aziraphale's voice is weak and tired, but the distraction from pain welcome. "I saw the creature that lost it, all slimy and skinny, muttering to itself. Poor fellow. He must have been something like a hobbit once before the Ring corrupted him. Probably found it in the river where Isildur has been slain. I don’t know what happened to that creature, I avoided him and finally found the exit."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Hm. Yeah, the Ring trying to constantly reach me while I've been holed in my lair of gold, that would drive any mortal mad. Poor bugger. So you already had it when we met there?" Crowley asks, trying to remove the pieces of rock and dirt that got stuck in the soles of his feet.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Yes. I'm sorry."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You bastard," Crowley says fondly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"To be fair, I didn’t know what the ring in my pocket was until you told me about it. Then it clicked."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley nods.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"What about you?" Aziraphale asks. "I thought you had enough of playing the scary Dark Lord, and yet here you are in Mordor again."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Ugh. Yeah, I thought so too. But Morgoth is planning a big offensive on Middle-earth. Maybe even Valinor. He roused all his servants and even without a Ring, I can’t appear disloyal. They would hunt me down. Well, </span>
  <em>
    <span>couldn't</span>
  </em>
  <span> appear. Now it doesn't matter anymore."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Their rings… you made them with the power of the One, didn’t you?" Aziraphale asks. "I've studied what I could find about the ring-lore, but I'd like to be certain."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Yes. Morgorth’s will flows through them, but their power is bound to the existence of the One. We just need to destroy it and they will lose their power. Other dark creatures are controlled through the tower of Barad-dûr. Which was built with the power of the One, too. We can do it, you and I." He makes a move as if to stand up. "We should move. I'll carry you..."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"No. I can walk," Aziraphale says. "Just a moment longer… There's something we need to talk about."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I don’t like that tone," Crowley murmurs. "It sounds too gloomy for this lovely scenery."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>One corner of Aziraphale's mouth lifts despite the tension in his features. "I'm sorry, dear, but I need to discuss this. I wasn't actually trying to sneak to Mount Doom when I was surprised by Shelob."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"No? Then what…"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I was trying to sneak </span>
  <em>
    <span>to you</span>
  </em>
  <span>."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"What? Into Barad-dûr? Are you crazy? It's heavily guarded!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I know. But I couldn't just go and destroy the Ring, even if I would be able to pass unnoticed. I had to tell you what I'm trying to do. Back in Erebor, I thought that I could shield you from it… that it would be better if you don't know I have it. But when it became clear that I won't be able to do it indefinitely, I needed to talk to you."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Why, Aziraphale? Is it not obvious that I want it to be destroyed? The only time I'd tell you I don’t would be when I'm controlled by it."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I still need to know that you are aware of what happens if we destroy it. And that you agree with it."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I lose a big part of my power. I know, Aziraphale."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The other maia nods faintly. "Yes. And it may hurt. A lot."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You are already hurting because of it. A lot. That feels worse to me than anything that destroying the Ring might make me feel."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale studies Crowley’s face for a moment. "Let’s go then," he says quietly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley takes his side and helps him to his feet. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They press on, hour after hour.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley’s wing is a constant ache and every step sends a new stab of pain through his feet. His footsteps are bloody, but he never falters in supporting his companion. It's only his will and support that keeps them moving.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale’s gaze is distant. There is a twofold struggle in his mind and no strength left for anything else. The first is against the pain, against the weakness of his hröa - his material form. It's only the strength of his will that keeps it from succumbing to all hardships it has been put through, keeps it going beyond mortal limits. The second is against Morgoth's will, getting stronger as they are nearing Mount Doom. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He walks like blind, letting Crowley lead. His breath is ragged, a raspy inhale, and a little pained moan with every exhale. He's trembling from pain and exhaustion. With every step, he looks like he won’t be able to make another one. And yet he does, another and then another. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Their progress is torturously slow. The mountain looms ahead and doesn't seem to come any closer, no matter how Crowley wills it to. His throat is parched, his lungs full of Mordor's poisonous fumes and there is no water to be found on the plain of Gorgoroth. He knows this, he knows every inch of this hated land. No water for Aziraphale. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He keeps moving because there's nothing else he can do. He pushes Aziraphale to keep moving because that's the only way he can help while he's not allowed to carry him. This close to the place of its creation, the Ring's power is terrible. No rest for Aziraphale until he gets rid of this burden. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>At dusk of the second day, two things happen. Crowley looks up and with surprise he finds out they are already at the feet of the mountain. Then Aziraphale stumbles and falls to his knees. Crowley tries to help him get up, but it's to no avail. Aziraphale can't take another step. Instead, he crawls on his knees and one hand. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"No no no, wait," Crowley rasps through his parched throat. "Aziraphale… I can't anymore… I need the boots, okay? I'll take the boots and I'll carry you, yes?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale is too far gone to notice the gentle ruse. He nods and allows Crowley to take the boots from him and lift him in his arms.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The dark maia staggers under the burden but doesn't fall. He makes a step. Even hidden, his wing screams in pain as muscles in his back strain. He begrudgingly admits (only to himself) that Aziraphale might have been right - he probably wouldn't have been able to do this for all of the way. He does it now, though.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He makes another step. The ground slopes upwards because that's what mountains usually do. You've got to go upwards if you want to climb one. Crowley hates climbing mountains. Or fording streams. Or anything else where one can get sweaty. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Now he is sweaty and terribly thirsty, bent down under a burden which somehow feels more like carrying the full weight of a maia's true form than the one of a starved hobbit. Every step hurts and he's exhausted and he knows it will be damn unpleasant if he manages to get Aziraphale where he is going: a bit like ripping out a tooth but the tooth has overgrown your whole essence. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He walks on.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There is a field of volcanic debris under his feet and he slides down a bit with every step. The sharp edges of the rocks bore into his raw feet even through the soles of his boots. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He walks on.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale is a dead weight, but Crowley knows that he's still conscious. Otherwise, he would have already taken the Ring by force, without any regards to Aziraphale’s poor abused fingers. He can feel the fever rising in Aziraphale's hröa and tries to walk faster, but the debris shifts and he ends several steps lower. Slow and steady, that’s the trick. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He walks on.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He stumbles as the slope suddenly evens. Finally, they have reached the road. It winds around the cone of the mountain, sloping upwards more gently. It's a relief for Crowley’s feet. He can feel blood seeping through the boots in some places.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He takes the road and walks on.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then he makes the mistake of looking towards the peak. It still seems so far as if he hasn't progressed at all. It's not the peak they need to get to, he reminds himself. Just follow the road until it reaches Sammath Naur with the Cracks of Doom. And then the Ring will be destroyed. And he will be free. But the Ring will be destroyed. Something so beautiful, so precious, just gone…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Aziraphale," he whispers urgently. "Stay with me, please…"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale moans and stirs a little and the intrusive thoughts flee. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Right, that's better," Crowley caresses his hand. "We're almost there. Just a little longer, angel."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He walks on.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Why does he walk? Why strain so? He could drop his burden and take the Ring this very moment. With its power, he could bring them to their goal in an instant. Or maybe he could keep it. With its power, he would be able to protect Aziraphale better…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Crowley, dear…" Aziraphale rasps, his voice strained. "I can't… He's too strong…" </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley's mind clears again, but he can feel it's Aziraphale's last stretch of will. It’s still over a mile to the Cracks of Doom and they won't make it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Bind me," he says suddenly. "Bind me and go on. Without having to shield me, you can do it."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It takes a moment for Aziraphale to focus enough to comprehend what Crowley is saying. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He takes a shaky breath and then closes his eyes, as if unable to look at Crowley. Then he nods.</span>
</p>
<hr/><p>
  <span>Crowley’s hands and feet are bound together with the last remnants of the cloak. He’s barefoot again, having given Aziraphale the boots. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>As he lays on the ground and watches Aziraphale stagger the last stretch of the journey, he hopes it will be enough. He can see the other maia's step getting more steady, his shoulders less hunched as if putting down a heavy burden. He can see him walking up the road that winds around the mountain. Intending to destroy his Ring. His. Ring. His alone! </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He struggles against the bonds. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It can’t be destroyed! It belongs to him, his Precious! </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The little stones that got swept on the road from the slopes above dig into his side. He twists his hands in the bonds, jarring the raw places on his wrists. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thief!” he cries out after the hobbit figure that will soon get hidden from his sight by a turn of the road. “Thief! Filthy little thief! Curse you!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The figure stops for a moment, head hung like in deep weariness. Then the hobbit walks on. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No! Come back here, you traitor! Give me back my Ring! You can’t destroy it!” Crowley struggles even more furiously. Blood is seeping into the bonds. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The hobbit figure is out of sight now. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He screams and thrashes, writhing like a snake in the volcanic dust. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>One of the knots gives. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley pulls and twists and finally one of his hands is free! </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It doesn’t take him long to free the other one and untie his feet.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then he runs. His bare feet leave bloody traces on the badly cobbled road. He runs, unfeeling, unthinking. There’s only one thing in his mind. It looks like a great hollow wheel of fire, a window into the Void. It’s calling to him and he can’t disobey. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Breathless, he passes the great door leading into the side of the mountain. A tunnel leads deeper into the darkness, crossed by a deep fissure. Flames flicker from the depths, a burst of fire occasionally reaching up the walls and illuminating the ceiling in red light. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Above that fissure, he can see a dark silhouette. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I have come,” the hobbit says in a clear voice. “But I do not choose now to do what I came to do. I will not do this deed. The Ring is mine!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley sees the shining band of gold on the hobbit’s finger. He doesn’t know how he crossed the last steps. He’s struggling with the smaller, but surprisingly strong figure. There’s nothing sentient in his snarl as he’s reaching for the Ring, prying it from the swollen finger. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s blood under his hands but the Ring doesn’t slip down no matter how hard he pulls. The hobbit is struggling, twisting under him, but his strength is dissipating. But the Ring. Does. Not. Want. To get off. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley’s eyes are fully golden like the Ring and lit with a possessive glow like the lava in the fissure below. The teeth in his mouth are sharp, fangs protruding over his lower lip. He brings the weakly resisting hand to them and </span>
  <em>
    <span>bites</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Taste of blood fills his mouth and a scream of pain fills his ears. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His Ring! He has his Ring! His Precious! His… Somehow, the scream manages to pierce through the fog in his mind. Aziraphale? Oh Eru, he hurt Aziraphale!</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In horror, he stares at the golden band in his hand, still stuck on something bloody. He stares at the hand clutching his, a bleeding stump instead of the third finger. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There is a moment of clarity.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He can see himself as a form of darkness, interlaced with golden fire. That’s the Ring’s power, connected with his essence. It’s dull now, despite the Ring shining brightly, reaching for the golden veins to light them up with its orders. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale is shielding him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>With the last remnant of his strength, the light maia is shielding him, cutting off the connection. He can see Aziraphale, too: a form of light that’s spilling all over Crowley now with his blood. He can see the golden veins in the whiteness. The Ring took hold in him deeply, too. The veins don’t reach everywhere like in Crowley’s essence, but it’s clear now why Aziraphale wasn’t able to destroy it.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale is watching him, his face twisted with pain. He has no strength to talk, but Crowley knows what that look is telling him. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Destroy it. Now or never.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Even without the Ring’s control, everything inside him screams to not do that. No, no! He can’t destroy something so beautiful, so powerful, reaching so deep into his own essence! </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale’s eyes close. His strength is failing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley tastes the blood in his mouth. Aziraphale’s.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Now or never. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>He presses the Ring in his palm and then throws it into the lava below. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>As soon as it leaves his hand, he reaches for it in desperation, dread sinking in his stomach. What has he done? His wings come forth. The right one is torn and bleeding, but he ignores the pain. He wants to jump after the Ring - maybe he can still save it. Maybe… A hand is pulling him back. Its grip is slick with blood. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then pain swallows all thoughts. His essence is burning. There’s lava in his veins, fire in his mind, ash in his mouth. Power ripped out of him, a scream that doesn’t sound like his, gold melting into agony. It lasts and lasts and then it’s over, a sense of weakness and emptiness sweeping over him in its wake. A sense of freedom. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale is looking at him, cheeks stained with tears. And Crowley realizes he felt it too - Aziraphale’s essence bears traces of burns where the golden veins have been, ash and smoke dissipating slowly. But now it’s over. They are both free and Aziraphale is looking at him like at the last thing he wants to see before his eyes close. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Panic shoots through Crowley, similar to the feeling when the Ring was dropped into the chasm. “No no no! Hold on! You can’t leave now! Aziraphale!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fires rise in the chasm. The mountain stirs. The ground shakes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley struggles to his feet. He feels weak but light. The weight of Morgoth’s will is gone. He knows that somewhere close, Barad-dûr is crumbling and the rings of the Nazgûl are melting on their fingers, leaving a confused horde of dark creatures and dying spirits that have cheated Death for long enough, respectively. He takes Aziraphale into his arms. It doesn’t feel like a burden anymore. The maia’s essence is as light as his starved hobbit form, blood and light still spilling from his finger.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley walks as fast as he can. Behind him, angry splashes of lava illuminate the tunnel. Tremors run through the mountain. The ground cracks. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s outside. The sky is covered in black clouds. He walks a bit further from the entrance and lowers Aziraphale to the ground, then sinks next to him.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Aziraphale!" he calls gently. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The other maia opens his eyes. "It is done," he smiles weakly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Yes. Yes, it is," Crowley whispers. The mountain is erupting above them, the lava running down the torn slopes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley watches it with a tired acceptance. He knows that when Aziraphale's body dies, his spirit will return to Valinor. He will get a new corporation, even if he maybe won't be allowed to return to Middle-earth. But for Crowley, there will be no shape without the power of the Ring. He will become a weak spirit in the shadows, unable to take form again. But Aziraphale will be safe. That’s all that matters to him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I am glad you are here with me. Here at the end of all things, angel," he smiles, watching Aziraphale’s face. His precious. The true one. He covers the maia with his dark wings.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale reaches weakly with his bleeding hand and caresses the feathers.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley closes his eyes. He feels light and weary. The pain is fading. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Crowley!" Aziraphale's voice pierces the mist he's floating in. It sounds urgent. He opens his eyes to see the strain in that pale face again. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Angel?" he asks with concern.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Crowley... you… you can’t sleep now… please..." Aziraphale looks like he is struggling to stay awake and speak with some strength his body doesn't even possess. He must be scraping it from the bottom of his essence.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Sorry… I'm with you. I'm here," he whispers, embracing Aziraphale more tightly with his wings. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"No, not here… Aragorn… You must find Aragorn… He'll help you..."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>For a moment Crowley thinks that Aziraphale is delirious. How should he find Aragorn? He would never outrun the lava that will reach them soon. He'd have to fly, but he can't, his wing is… is… There is no pain. He moves his wing and there's no pain. Aziraphale healed it. The bastard. He healed it with the last bit of his strength and is dying now. Giving Crowley the means to save himself while he may never set foot out of Valinor if he discorporates here. Absolute bastard.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Whatever strength Aziraphale found, it's leaving him. His eyes close. He looks so pale, so fragile. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The mountain is belching lava. Clouds of fumes run down its slopes, rocks fly through the air. The ground trembles, cracks spreading across it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley shakes off the weariness and forces his stiff body to move. Once more he takes Aziraphale into his arms. The hand in the sling is as cold as ice, the other one red with blood and missing a finger. He tries to be mindful of both but doesn't have time. Aziraphale doesn’t even stir when the broken hand shifts. His head rolls to the side. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Hold on, angel," Crowley pleads and jumps into the air. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Just a moment later, lava floods the place where they have been. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley doesn't look back. He puts all that’s left in him into moving his weary wings. In the distance on the East, he can see the Dark tower crumbling. Northwest are the Towers of the Teeth and the Black Gate. Built with the power of the Ring, the gate is collapsing, too. That's where he needs to fly. That's where Aragorn should be. He's a healer, Aziraphale said, from the blood of Lúthien. And a friend. If someone can help, it would be him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley flies. The weariness is like lead in his limbs. He flies. The loss of the Ring has left him weak and shaken. He flies. Over the barren plain of Gorgoroth, over ash and dirt and poisonous fumes, he flies. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then he's passing the Towers of the Teeth and there's a battle below: fleeing orcs and last remnants of the dark army against the victorious forces of Gondor and Rohan. He flies over the battlefield, looking for a safe place to land behind the lines. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They noticed him. There are archers aiming at him. He tries to look as non-threatening as possible, but it's hard when flying from Mordor on the black wings of a dark maia. The strings are drawn. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Someone is rushing towards the archers. A man in a high helmet and a white tree on his tabard. "Don't shoot!" he calls, "don’t shoot!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley doesn't have much time to be relieved as his strength gives up right on the finish line. He nearly crashes from the sky but manages to break his fall and land heavily. With his own body and wings, he protects Aziraphale from hitting the ground as he collapses himself. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He can see feet approaching him, heavy boots of soldiers all around. Someone leans over him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Aragorn…" he rasps through a dry throat. "I need… I…" He lifts his wings just a little - it refuses to move more, all muscles burning with exhaustion - and reveals the pale curls matted with dirt and blood. "Help him… please…"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A gentle hand touches his shoulder. "I will," he hears a reassuring voice. Then everything fades.</span>
</p>
<hr/><p>
  <span>When Crowley wakes, he finds that he is lying on some soft bed, but over him gently sway wide beechen boughs, and through their leaves sunlight glimmers, green and gold.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He feels weak, diminished in power… but at peace? He blinks, trying to make sense of it. A memory comes to his mind - sharp fangs over a golden band, the taste of blood in his mouth. Terrible burning. Aziraphale, pale and still in his arms. Was it a dream?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s dressed in a grey silk robe, but under it there seem to be bandages. The soles of his feet tingle slightly. His wings are out, the sunrays pleasantly warm on his black feathers. The left one reaches out of the bed, supported by pillows. The right one… the right one is moving up and down just a little, in the rhythm of a peaceful breath. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Pale curls are peeking out from under the comfortable blanket of feathers. They are clean and soft, like lamb’s wool in spring. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good morning,” a gentle voice interrupts his musings. “You are in Ithilien, in case you’re wondering.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley instantly shifts his wing protectively, fully shielding the sleeping figure. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You are safe now, Crowley. I’m Aragorn and you are under my protection.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Aragorn? He was supposed to find Aragorn. Aziraphale told him that. He was so pale. Bleeding. Dying.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley turns sharply to look at the man who spoke. His body protests the sudden move, aches flaring in several places. He gives them no attention as he’s studying the man. He's tall and lean, with dark hair flecked with grey. His face is pale and stern, but his grey eyes are kind as he meets Crowley's gaze. Something tells the dark maia that this is indeed the man whom Aziraphale could trust. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He relaxes somewhat and lifts his wing to look at Aziraphale. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There are bandages under the grey silk, much more than on Crowley’s own form. Aziraphale’s left hand is in a sling and the right one… </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"It wasn't a dream…" he whispers shakily. "I did that. My teeth, like an animal. Oh, Eru…"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Aragorn doesn't look shocked or repulsed by that revelation. "And then you carried him out of the fire," he says.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Will he be alright?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Aragorn's face is weary, but he smiles. "Yes. Rest easy knowing that you saved him."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"It rather seems like you did. I… I think I should thank you."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I managed to call him back from the verge of death," Aragorn says. "But it was a very close call. Had you brought him just a moment later, it would be too late." He looks at Crowley. "We saved him together. And you two saved all of us."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley shakes his head, watching Aziraphale’s peaceful face. It's still pale, lines of suffering etched in it deeply. "He saved </span>
  <em>
    <span>me</span>
  </em>
  <span>. For all the time, he's been shielding me from the Ring and I didn’t even know. And I… His poor finger…"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I don't think there's any blame you could put on yourself about that. How about you eat and drink and then tell me what happened there?" Aragorn suggests. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley stares at him as if he had a hard time understanding how he could eat or drink when Aziraphale is hurt.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"He’s not in danger anymore,” Aragorn says quietly. “Right now, it's rest that he needs most. But you need to regain your strength. You weren’t far from discorporating, either. I needed to tend to him first to save him, but when I got to you, you were already slipping away, too.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thank you. For tending to him first.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Aragorn sighs and reaches for a tray with bread and fruit and a silver cup. He puts it next to the bed and then raises the pillows so that his patient can eat. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley doesn’t eat. He drinks the water but doesn’t touch the fruit. “I learnt that he has been captured in Cirith Ungol,” he says, turning a grape berry on his palm. He speaks about what happened like making a confession, not looking at Aragorn but watching Aziraphale’s face instead. He speaks about what happened in the topmost chamber of the Tower of Cirith Ungol. He speaks about the fall of Hastur and the exhausting journey across the ashes and sharp rocks of Gorgoroth. He speaks about the Cracks of Doom and about the fight there, about the destruction of the Ring and the healing of his wing. He speaks quietly, words like droplets of blood from the open wound of memories. Finally, he has said everything and he is left drained and trembling.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Aziraphale told me a lot about you,” Aragorn finally speaks after Crowley has finished. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Has he?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It was a long journey from Bree. There was time to talk about many things. And I see that he was telling the truth. You really are a remarkable spirit, Crowley. You are strong and courageous. And you are kind…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“...am not,” Crowley snarls. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“...ah, yes. And don’t like four-letter words. That bit was true as well, I see.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley frowns.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Please, believe me this. It wasn’t you who bit off his finger. It was you who saved him. And you both saved Middle-earth from Morgoth’s will. Aziraphale will tell you the same when he wakes.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley carefully touches the bandaged hand and caresses it. “When?” he asks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He will sleep at least a day longer, I expect. Maybe more. He’s been exhausted beyond all endurance.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He’s been so brave.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes. And now he will need you when he wakes. He’ll be very weak and both of his hands are hurt. I’ve sent you both into healing sleep after I brought you back, but his was unrestful. He’s not used to sleeping anymore, I suppose. But like this,” Aragorn pointed at Crowley’s wing covering Aziraphale, “he was able to sleep peacefully.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I promised him we’ll be together until the very end,” Crowley says. “I intend to keep that promise.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good,” Aragorn smiles. “But now, eat.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And Crowley obeys. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale wakes two days later.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley watches the adorable scrunch of his nose as he starts waking and tries not to, too comfortable under his blanket of feathers. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey,” Crowley whispers. “Time to wake, sleepy princess... Don’t tell me you're not hungry."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale opens his eyes and blinks in confusion. “Crowley?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m here, angel. I’ll always be here.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s a shadow of dark memories in Aziraphale’s eyes, but he smiles with those words.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"We're in Ithilien, in case you’re wondering," Crowley says, "in the care of Aragorn. He'll be here shortly, had some kingly stuff to do."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tears well in Aziraphale's eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Angel?" Crowley asks anxiously. "Are you…"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But then Aziraphale starts to laugh. He laughs and weeps and there is such a deep relief in both that Crowley’s heart swells and he starts laughing too and then sobs and holds Aziraphale close, never to be separated again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When the tears abate, they just breathe together. The air is fresh and clean. A great shadow has passed and left hope in its wake. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You mentioned something about food," Aziraphale speaks finally. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley laughs. "Of course, my dear hobbit," he says and he knows that Aziraphale will be all right. </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Epilogue</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>There's a bit of a difference between Mr. Bilbo and Mr. Aziraphale, though. See, Mr. Bilbo brought a chest full of treasures from his adventures. Mr. Aziraphale brought an elf.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>In a cottage in the Southfarthing of the Shire, there lives a hobbit. Not your usual, cheerful but a bit narrow-minded, respectable, never-done-anything-unexpected hobbit. His neighbours see Mr. Aziraphale Pansy as a queer and eccentric fellow who fills his home with strange books written in strange languages that aren't even cookbooks or genealogical records. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His garden is an envy of the wide surroundings, lush plants flowering all year around the cottage, fruit and vegetables growing big and juicy-sweet. He is a good companion, too. Folks like talking to him - he always has a lot of understanding and an encouraging word for everyone. One feels good in his company, and lighter afterward. But sometimes, his look gets distant and there is some strange shadow in it as if he would be looking at things that weren't there and that shouldn't be seen by anyone. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And he wears shoes. He went off not wearing ones, and he returned with them and nobody has seen his feet ever since. Some speculate that he got the custom from the Big Folk and wants to show that he's better than the rest of them. Then someone who knows him a tad better suggests that maybe he hurt his feet and the fur never grew back properly. Then nobody mentions it again, because hobbits do love gossip but being intentionally cruel in it is being frowned upon.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mr. Pansy has a great taste and appreciation for food, too. There are the best apples in all of the Southfarthing growing in his garden and he is glad to share them, just like his recipes. Rumors are that he got those in his travels in some strange lands. Nobody minds that when tasting the meals, though. When it comes to food, hobbits are rather open-minded. If you can grow and cook it with your own two hands and it tastes good, they don’t care where the recipe is from. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Now, adventures, that’s a different matter. Going off to have adventures is not something a respectable hobbit would ever do. It's not unheard of, though. Old Bilbo Baggins from Bag End went on an adventure, and when his nephew Frodo did the same with three of his friends, it didn’t even cause that much commotion anymore. Nowadays some young hobbits even think that adventures are great, even if most of them still prefer reading about them from a book borrowed from Mr. Pansy than actually experiencing them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There's a bit of a difference between Mr. Bilbo and Mr. Aziraphale, though. See, Mr. Bilbo brought a chest full of treasures from his adventures. Mr. Aziraphale brought an elf. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A tall, ginger elf with strange eyes and a greatly unusual picture of a snake on his temple. Or hers, sometimes - it's hard to tell the elven folk apart anyway and Crowley sometimes wears a tunic and breeches of fine black silk and velvet and sometimes she wears a lovely dress and her long hair is loose under an elaborate circlet that looks like a snake winding around her head. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>For the first months the elf Crowley almost never left Mr. Aziraphale's side. One could assume it's because he, or occasionally she, felt unsure in the new surroundings. But a careful observer might notice how that haunted look is gone from Mr. Aziraphale's eyes when Crowley calls him </span>
  <em>
    <span>angel</span>
  </em>
  <span> and presses his hand. They might notice how Mr. Aziraphale rubs the stump of his finger or his left hand or the back of his neck as if it would pain him until Crowley places a gentle hand on the spot and whispers into his ear. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And sometimes it's the elf whose look gets distant, but that would be rather hard to recognize for someone who's not familiar with elves - for all that the hobbits know, it could be a normal expression for them. But one doesn't need to be familiar with elves. One just needs to know Crowley just like Mr. Aziraphale does to recognize the shame and guilt visible in his eyes as he watches the missing finger on Mr. Aziraphale's hand. Then it's Mr. Aziraphale who speaks to him softly and chases that look away from his eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A less careful observer would only notice that Mr. Aziraphale let the cottage be rebuilt with higher ceilings so that his companion can move comfortably in it. It's also the secret to Mr. Aziraphale's garden. No wonder all things in it grow like crazy when an elf is taking care of them. They seem slightly terrified, though - although if you asked, the observer would have a hard time explaining how a wisteria or a parsnip can look terrified.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Of course, there are tons of gossip about how Mr. Pansy met the elf and how he lost his finger, and Crowley even takes part in it by spreading contradictory rumours and encouraging disagreements. It seems to amuse Mr. Aziraphale, who never says anything to prove nor disprove any of the theories. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It did take a while, but now, when a visitor from Hobbiton or Michel Delving asks about the strange elf, the locals look confused for a moment before they go: "Oh, you mean Crowley! He's not a strange elf, he's </span>
  <em>
    <span>our</span>
  </em>
  <span> elf. Well, Mr. Aziraphale's, to be exact. He makes the best apple tarts in the Shire."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And somehow, when the two of them get distracted in the market place once and share a goodbye kiss as Aziraphale heads towards a stall with delightful cakes and Crowley hurries in the opposite direction to check out the new seeds from Hobbiton, it should be water to the mill of gossip, but it isn't. It just feels like things are exactly as they should be.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Well, that's how Mr. Aziraphale Pansy is seen by his neighbours. But the truth is, Aziraphale is not a hobbit, despite wearing the form like an old comfortable coat. And Crowley is not an elf, despite the form being most fitting for his temperament. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale is a maia who refused to return to Valinor when Manwë sent an eagle with a rather cold congratulations to a job well done and a rather unsubtle message that he's not needed in Middle-earth anymore. And Crowley, Crowley is a maia who is no longer controlled by the will of Morgoth. Now they are on their own side, sharing a cottage in the Southfarthing. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale is just writing a letter to his old friend Aragorn, now also called King Elessar, when the door opens and in comes Crowley, in his traveling garb of a simple wood elf this time. He's been away for a few days, giving their goodbyes to Elrond and Galadriel who just departed from the Grey Havens to take a ship following the straight road towards the West. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley takes in the scene in front of him. The afternoon sun is illuminating Aziraphale's soft curls. His cheeks are filled again, soft and rosy. He looks content, comfortable. His face lights up when he sees Crowley, a smile from his lips spreading to his eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley draws a deep breath. "Well, I'm back," he says.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>The beautiful picture in this chapter is painted by the talented gemennair (on <a href="https://gemennair.tumblr.com/">tumblr</a> or <a href="https://www.patreon.com/gemennair/posts">patreon</a>)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Appendices</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span class="u">
    <span>Appendix A: The changes to Tolkien's canon</span>
  </span>
</p>
<ul>
<li><span>The presence of Aziraphale as a maia of Estë. Manwë, who here has the personality of Gabriel, sends him to his first mission on Númenor and later sends him as the only agent to Middle-earth.</span></li>
<li><span>The presence of Crowley as a maia of Varda. Melkor/Morgoth corrupts him instead of Aulë's maia Mairon, so Crowley becomes Sauron instead of him. </span></li>
<li><span>The One Ring was created by Morgoth before his defeat in the War of Wrath and given to Crowley/Sauron to enthrall him. After his defeat, it continues being Morgoth’s means of forcing his will even from the Void. </span></li>
</ul>
<p>
  <span>All other changes are a result of these.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span class="u">
    <span>Appendix B: Characters whose places Aziraphale and Crowley took in the narrative</span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <b>Aziraphale</b>
  <span>: Tar-Míriel (Ar-Zimraphel), Gandalf, Bilbo Baggins, Frodo Baggins. In one place he mirrored Éowyn, but she still slew the Witch King.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <b>Crowley</b>
  <span>: Sauron, Smaug, Sam Gamgee, Gollum, Gwaihir.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span class="u">
    <span>Appendix C: The fates of important Tolkien's characters</span>
    
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <b>Tar-Míriel</b>
  <span>: wasn't forced to marry her cousin after she abdicated in his favour. She was on one of Elendil's ships that escaped the flood. She settled in Middle-earth and never married.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <b>Gandalf</b>
  <span>: Aziraphale was sent to Middle-earth instead of all five Wizards, so Gandalf stayed home in Valinor. Aziraphale played both his and Bilbo's role in Thorin's expedition, without Gandalf’s detour to Dol Guldur, because there was no Necromancer there.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <b>Saruman</b>
  <span>: stayed home in Valinor. This means no army of orcs in Isengard, no battle of Hornburg, and no reason to avoid the Rohan gap on the way to Mordor, eliminating the necessity to go through Moria. By the absence of Saruman, the journey to Mordor got rather uneventful for the Ring-bearer. Also, no Scouring of the Shire.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <b>Bilbo Baggins</b>
  <span>: missed the quest with Thorin's company, but still went on an adventure with some dwarves who needed the services of a professional burglar and somehow thought he'd be the right one for the job, basing their observation on Aziraphale's participation in the quest and thinking that all hobbits are like that. Bilbo returned rich and adopted his orphaned nephew Frodo. With no Ring involved in his life, he died at the ripe age of 114.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <b>Frodo, Sam, Merry and Pippin</b>
  <span>: followed in Bilbo's steps and went on an adventure together, one that wasn't nearly as traumatising for Frodo as the quest with the Ring. It brought them to Gondor where they befriended its new king. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <b>Legolas and Gimli</b>
  <span>: met as ambassadors of their realms to Gondor and after a harsh beginning became unlikely friends.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <b>Gollum</b>
  <span>: never learnt who took his Ring, probably died in his cave under the Misty Mountains. Without this knowledge gained from Gollum, the Nazgûl never got to the Shire and never suspected that the Ring is on the move. This is why there was no order from Lugbûrz to catalogue all caught prisoners' possessions and keep the prisoners safe and intact until Sauron sends or comes himself - unfortunately for Aziraphale.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <b>Aragorn</b>
  <span>: befriended Aziraphale during his journeys. Since Aziraphale learnt about the Ring from Crowley, he didn't need to hunt Gollum. Once it became evident that the Ring needs to be destroyed, he met with Aziraphale in Bree and journeyed with him alone towards Mordor. There was no Elrond's council or Fellowship of the Ring, despite them stopping in Rivendell on their journey. He intended to claim the palantír of Orthanc to challenge Morgoth and make him strike on Minas Tirith before his armies are ready, then bring the army of Rohan to aid Gondor. All of this should have created a distraction for Aziraphale to get through Mordor unnoticed. In the palantír, Aragorn saw the intended attack of the Corsairs on Pelargir and decided to take the Paths of the Dead. The Grey company led by Halbarad and the sons of Elrond caught up with him on the way there.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <b>Théoden</b>
  <span>: was under the influence of his advisor Gríma Wormtongue, but not Saruman's. Aziraphale in his wizard form managed to reason with Théoden and rouse Rohan to ride for Gondor's aid before he split with Aragorn. Théoden died in the battle of Pelennor fields together with his son Théodred.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <b>Boromir</b>
  <span>: never went to seek answers to Rivendell. Died in the battle of Pelennor fields by the side of his father Denethor. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <b>Faramir</b>
  <span>: met Aziraphale in Ithilien and was wounded covering the retreat of his men. During the attack on Minas Tirith, he was lying between life and death in the Houses of Healing until Aragorn arrived. Denethor never tried to burn him, having his other son by his side.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <b>Éowyn</b>
  <span>: rode secretly with Rohan's army and killed the Witch King Beelzebub. Instead of Merry stabbing the Nazgûl’s leg to provide her with a distraction, it was the dying Théodred who did so. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The rest of the histories remains unchanged.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
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